Tales From A Kinder World
by Xzeihoranth
Summary: For every action (a hug, a dance, a gentle word of encouragement in certain key locations) there is an equal and opposite reaction. A series of short stories that start out nice and sweet, but like the game itself, ends in tragedy... Temporarily on hiatus until I undergo a transorbital lobotomy of my own.
1. It All Began At Battleship Bay

Someone is yelling at him. He opens his eyes, and finds himself face-to-face with a seagull. It yells at him again and makes as if to peck him on the nose. He waves a hand at it blearily, earning himself a wave of deja vu as it takes flight, spraying him with sand. He rolls onto his back with a wince, rubs at his face exhaustedly, and sighs. Now comes the hard part.

He groans as he sits up; every inch of him aches. He looks about for a moment, then it comes back to him. He stumbles hastily to his feet and looks about again, more urgently this time, but to no avail. The girl is gone.

He curses to and at himself under his breath as he limps up the beach toward the exit. "You're a goddamn idiot, DeWitt. She's your only ticket out of this mess and y' let her go off on her own so y' c'n take a nap." He stops talking to himself long enough to ask a man nearby if he's seen her, but he muffs the question and the man just laughs at him. He grimaces and keeps moving, making a note of the poster advertising the First Lady as he passes; could come in handy when they're ready to get out of town...

He drags his weary eyes across another beach, this one larger and more full than the last, all the while berating and consoling himself by turns. "There must be hundreds of people out there; how in God's name d' y' think you're gonna find one little girl? ...Not like I got a choice. I'll turn the whole damn park upside down 'f I have to." He's about to head upstairs for a better vantage point when he recalls what drew her away in the first place. "The music." Quickly, he searches the group of people on the pier. There. A quick flash of a familiar blue.

He staggers forward toward the steps leading up to the boardwalk and is brought up short when a passing breeze whisks an umbrella past him into the waves. He waits impatiently as two small children hurry after it, but they quickly lose interest and take turns splashing each other with water, letting him move on. He stops again for a moment at the foot of the steps to catch his breath, and sees that blue again at the end of the pier; then it's gone in the blink of an eye. He hauls himself up the steps, using the handrail for support to pull himself toward her.

By the time he draws level with the crowd, he's made up his mind to wade in and drag her out, by force if need be. "This could get ugly. Must be 'bout a dozen folk in there. 'Least they haven't taken to Vigors as well..." But as he tries to figure out which one of the beswimsuited merrymakers is his charge, he finally lays eyes on her, a whirl of delight, dancing with anyone and everyone who comes near. He's spellbound as the others scatter to all sides, the better to cheer her on. Her long blue skirt and hair billow in the wind as she dances on the spot, in a heart-stoppingly happy jig. His resolve begins to slip away, and as he continues to watch, a small part of him breaks free from the misery and guilt he's made his life for the past oh-so-many years, without even knowing why.

She sees him now, but doesn't miss a beat. "Oh, this is WONDERFUL! Oh, come dance with me Mr DeWitt!" she begs him, holding out her hands.

He clears his throat in sudden embarrassment. "I don't dance. Come on, let's go."

"Why?" she laughs innocently. "What could be better than THIS?" She spins around, arms spread wide like she wants to embrace the entire sky.

It is true that, at that moment, the First Lady was running a little behind schedule and thus fails to pass behind her as it has been known to do elsewhere, and yet it is just as true that this Booker DeWitt is not like the others (many of the others at any rate). There are constants and variables within as well as without, and something in this man's soul was, while not perhaps softer as such, certainly more susceptible to change. Make no mistake, he has done the things that all DeWitts must; in Peking and Wounded Knee, in that tiny little office and out on the streets of New York, and he hates himself as much as the next one will. And yet he will dance with her, before he even knows who she is, both as Elizabeth and as his daughter. He will dance with her, though his body is stiff and bruised from the long fall into the bay. He will dance, and he will smile, and she will laugh, and his heart may indeed grow three sizes that day, but it will not be enough to escape the fate that he chooses for them amidst the Sea of Doors.

But he dances all the same.


	2. Just Close Your Eyes

The last of Slate's men sinks to the floor, a gout of blood spurting forth from the mangled flesh of his neck, causing Elizabeth to gasp in revulsion. Booker lets the sniper rifle fall from his hands and staggers back against the wall, trying not to clutch at his side. Elizabeth nearly throws herself over the railing after the rifle and turns to face her rescuer, a look of annoyance dashed across her beautiful face. "You really should be more careful," she scolds him. "These things are hard to come by." He responds with a grunt, as he's done oh so many times since they'd met. It's only then that she notices the blood that's begun to seep through his shirt. Her heart skips a beat.

She rushs forward, already reaching for her medical kit. "You should have said something!" she says faintly as he helped her undo his vest with trembling hands.

"Never liked snipers." Booker mumbles. ""F you're gonna kill a man, least you c'n do is look him in the eye."

"I was talking about this!" Elizabeth says, kneeling down beside him. He casts his shirt away, and she starts examining the wound as gently as she can, trying not to look at Booker's face, or count his scars, or notice the shade of grey he's begun to turn. Something doesn't seem right; it's too shallow to have produced this much blood so soon. Maybe... "How long have you had this, Mr DeWitt?" she asks slowly, hoping for once in her life she was wrong.

"I don't know." he lies She glares at him and he closes his eyes, as if trying to remember. "Iiit might've been when that metal Washington thing showed up."

"WHICH Washington thing?" Elizabeth demands. Booker doesn't answer, but he doesn't have to. She sighs in irritation. "I didn't think it'd get this bad," he offers sheepishly.

"I'd say you didn't think at all." she says at last, shaking herself out of her moment's reverie and searching through her bag hurriedly. She holds up an ominous-looking needle and flicks it a few times with her finger.

"There's no call f'r that," Booker says, a strange note of panic creeping into his voice. "Just put some gauze 'round it an' I'll be good as new." He pulls his arm away as she reaches for it. She frowns.

"Booker, we don't have time for this. Give me your arm." To her amazement, he actually tries to wriggle away from her as she reaches out again. "Booker! You're bleeding out!" He's acting like a child... Elizabeth tries to take a deep breath to calm herself, then puts a hand on his shoulder. She winces at how clammy his skin is, but keeps her voice steady. "Booker, listen to me. You have to trust me; I know what I'm doing."

"I know. You showed me that back in Peking. I...I don't like needles."

"What?" She didn't think it's possible to be more dumbfounded than she had been a second ago.

Booker turns to face her angrily. "I said I don't like needles!" She jumps and he manages to find the decency to look abashed. "Sorry... I just don't like 'em. They HURT."

Elizabeth shakes her head in disbelief. "You took a bullet for me. You've taken...a LOT of bullets for me. And one little needle is too much?" He says nothing. "It's just laudanum: something to help the pain while I try to get you stitched up." Still nothing. She reaches out her hand again and closes four of her delicate white fingers around his wrist. She looks at Booker's tired green eyes, and doesn't blink. Finally, he nods. She nods back, already trying to will her hands not to shake with relief as she moves in closer, pulling his arm over to her. She looks down at the needle just long enough to make sure it was still ready, then back up at Booker. "Do it." he says and closes his eyes tight.

She takes another deep breath and inserts the needle into the crook of his elbow. His body stiffens and he hisses with pain. "It'll go in a lot easier if you try and relax." she advises him.

"I don't know if I can" is the muttered response.

"Look at me, Booker." she says, quietly but firmly. Eventually, he does. "You're going to be fine. Just breathe..." she murmurs soothingly.

"I'll try." he gasps, and he does try. She feels, rather than sees, every coil, every fiber of his body begin to unwind and unclench, and bit by bit the resistance of his arm against her needle subsides and she can get it in a little deeper. She pushs the plunger down about halfway, waits a bit, eases the needle out. "There. That wasn't so bad," she says, trying to sound normal and reassuring.

"Easy f'r you to say." Booker grumbles.

"Now for the main attraction." Elizabeth sets to work on the bullet hole in his side; first she applies a touch of antiseptic solution to ward off infection, then she tries to patch it up. She decides against stitches; with all the running and jumping Booker has to do just to survive up here, he'll rip them out in no time. Reluctantly, she settles for a large bandage and wraps it as tight as she could without aggravating the poor man any more.

"All done." she whispers to him. He ignores her. Again. "Booker, we're done. You can get up." Still no response. "I'd advise against it; you'd be better off waiting here for a while to catch your breath." Silence. "Booker!"

He bolts upright. "What? Where are we?" he shouts incoherently. Elizabeth scrambles to her feet and stands in front of him, her small hands held up placatingly. "We're fine. You're fine. We're at the Hall of Heroes; do you remember that?"

Booker's eyes drift down to her without seeing. "Anna...?"

She frowns a little. There was that name again... "No, I'm still Elizabeth. Booker, are you all right?"

"Eliza-" He blinks, once, twice. "Elizabeth. Sorry. That...that laudanum sure packs a punch."

Elizabeth lets her hands fall to her side, but she can't help looking at him in concern. "Laudanum's just a painkiller, not an opiate. You've been running on adrenaline all night. You should get some rest."

"There'll be rest enough once we're on that airship to Paris." Booker says as he takes a determined step forward. He wobbles and would have fallen flat on his face if Elizabeth didn't grabbed him by the hand to steady him. "As your physician, I'm ordering you to bed. Seeing as how all the cots have been taken however, the floor's going to have to do." She helps him towards the crates piled up to the right of the exit, careful not to go too fast; she wants nothing more than to get out of this horrible place, but she also doesn't want Booker to fall off one of the skylines to a ghastly death far below, or for him to collapse on top of her on their way back to Soldiers' Field (the man's enormous!). "Almost there, Mr DeWitt." she says as she eases him around the edge of the crates.

"How many times... It's Booker, Elizabeth. Booker." he mutters. She barely resists the urge to roll her eyes, and settles instead for sitting him down against the wall a little more roughly than she anticipated. "Ow."

Elizabeth straightens up and regards the man slumped in thr corner with a surprising amount of tenderness. "I'll keep an eye out while you get some sleep, Mr DeWitt." She makes sure to use his last name, and can't help smiling a little as she does. Booker looks as if he was about to argue with her, but the crate was more comfortable than he expected and he promptly falls asleep.

A handful of hours later, when he awakens, he tries to stretch his arms to either side but discovers a pile of crates impeding his progress on the right and, somewhat more to his surprise, a young girl snuggling against him on the left. He considers waking her up, then decides against it almost immediately. "Tomorrow can wait a little while longer." he thinks aloud as he unconsciously wraps an arm about the girl's shoulders.


	3. Onboard the First Lady

He hadn't meant to tell her the truth. He hadn't meant to make her cry. But the controls are set, and he can't think of changing them, if change is what he wants, with the poor girl sobbing brokenly into her hands the way she is.

"Come on..." Booker begins hesitantly, stepping around the chair toward her. He reaches out a tentative hand to turn her around, but Elizabeth rounds on him angrily. He twists himself to the side and the blow that would have left him sprawled upon the deck instead lands heavily on his shoulder. "Hey! What-"

"Don't you _dare_ touch me!" She almost spits the words out as she forces him back, holding the wrench aloft and ready for another strike.

His shoulder throbs dully; time for that later if he's careful. "Would you just put that thing down and we c'n talk about this like ordinary people?" he asks. She's never done this before, there might be a chance...

"I am not about to trade one cage for another, Mr DeWitt!" she shouts, pointing the wrench at him for emphasis. He seizes the moment, and her by the wrist, when he lunges forward, faster than she can react. _I know about a hundred ways of disarmin' folk. Trouble is, they all hurt..._ he worries.

They glare at each other: Elizabeth puts all of her might into resisting him, and Booker hopes desperately he won't have to respond in kind. She grunts slightly with the strain, and he remembers the way she wrestled with the gondola's lever while trying to run away. He curses to himself; then, as now, some strange damn part of himself wants nothing more than to drop everything and wrap his arms around her. _The hell's gotten into you? _he scolds himself. _She just tried to hit you upside the head; the last thing she wants is a damn hug..._

He's pulled back to the moment when he realizes he's staring down the barrel of a gun. His gun. Elizabeth has taken advantage of his momentary distraction and grabbed his pistol from its holster. If he wasn't on the other end of it, he would have applauded, but he's afraid now. Her hands are shaking violently, but that's no comfort; even a novice can do some serious damage at this range, magnetic-repulsive field or no.

She hasn't said anything, just keeps looking at him with that expression that he knows he'll be taking to his grave, whenever that is. "Elizabeth. Give me the gun." Booker says quietly.

"Take me to Paris." she says, her voice thick with tears.

"First, gimme the gun."

She cocks it like he does; always a quick learner. "You're taking me to Paris. After that, I never want to see you again."

Booker's heart sinks irrationally, but he nods. "Fine. If that's the way you want it." He takes a step forward. She backs up nervously and the gun trembles in her hands. He raises his own hands quickly. "Hey, easy. I'm just headin' up front, all right?" Elizabeth nods slightly, and keeps the pistol aimed at him all the way back to the front of the ship. He works the levers for a bit, trying to fill the silence. "Startin' fights ain't always the way to go. Back there at the ticket booth, I had a...a hunch that somethin' was up. The way the man was talkin' was makin' hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I was half tempted to pull out my gun and make him give me the tickets."

"Is that supposed to be some-" She sniffs. "-great moral victory? You got yourself stabbed for your trouble."

"Hnh. Maybe not, but it wouldn't've turned out much better 'f I had." Booker turns. New tears have begun to swell in her blue blue eyes. He can't help it, moves toward her. She stiffens and turns away. "All you had t' do was ask." he says gently; Elizabeth chokes back a sob. He winces; comfort is never his strong suite. He wonders what she would say if he put a hand on her shoulder to try and comfort her. He wonders what she'd do. But he decides against it and stands there awkwardly for a time while she struggles to compose herself. Every little sound she makes cuts him clear through anew.

Finally he says, "We're gonna need to stop off for supplies if we want to make it to Paris in one go."

She clears her throat before she responds. "We can probably find what we're looking for near Finkton. They mostly make machinery, Dollar Bill vendors and the like, but they take in all kinds of things down by the docks: food, water, you name it."

"You pick up a brochure when I wasn't lookin'?" Booker asks dryly. "You should go 'n' lie down; 'f you don't mind me sayin' so, you're a mess."

"You're one to talk." Elizabeth retorts; she even manages a grin. She walks to the cabin at the rear of the ship and pauses at the door. "One more thing..." He looks back over his shoulder, the same one she'd hit with the wrench, and the lines around his tired old eyes crease some more as she tosses his pistol to him with a familiar "Catch!"

_It is a well-known fact, though perhaps not a widely-known one, that writers lie. They must; most of their stories are simply not true, and while they may be true elsewhere, that is a matter for quantum physicists and the ones that time has decided it can do without, not for the writer.  
To return to the lie... Dawn does not break, it grows. It grows until one cannot remember what darkness is. Just as it grew today. (Although these things have already happened, they also do not, never have, and yet will happen elsewhere.)_ The sun is high in the sky, higher than the city itself, when Booker knocks at the door. "Rise and shine, o Lamb of Columbia!" he calls. The door opens and he's met with a cushion to the face.

"I thought we had a deal, Mr DeWitt." Elizabeth says with a pretend glare.

"We may have done. Though to my mind, we also agreed on Booker as opposed t' Mr DeWitt." he retorts.

"No more 'lamb', no more 'Mr DeWitt'." she says primly.

"Fine by me. Now that you're all freshened up, we c'n hit the docks whenever you're ready."

"Shouldn't someone stay and watch the ship?"

"Push comes to shove, we c'n find another. You, on the other hand, are pretty irreplaceable."

Elizabeth turns a faint shade of pink and Booker can't hide his smile. He offers his arm, which she accepts, and together they stroll down the steps to the gathering storm around Finkton.


	4. A Storm Is Coming

With a bit of luck, a few well-placed silver eagles, and a little unavoidable intimidation, they soon gather a respectable number of provisions for the trip ahead. Only time will tell if it would be enough, but time is not on their side.

"Booker," Elizabeth says as they make their way, laden with parcels upon parcels, back to the dock where the First Lady is moored. "I think I saw someone moving about inside."

He shifts a few packages to one side for a better look. "Yeah, I see 'm too. Let's hope it's just the one..."

"Hold it right there!" a voice barks. Suddenly, they're surrounded. Four, five, six, seven safeties all click off in almost perfect unison as the voice speaks again. "No sudden moves, big guy. Just set the stuff down nice and easy, and keep those hands where we can see 'em." Booker obeys reluctantly, wondering if he could summon a murder of crows quickly enough to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. As he turns however, he sees that three of the newcomers are standing behind Elizabeth, who suddenly seems very small and very afraid. Everyone until now has been aiming for him instead of her, but either they're smarter than they look and know the extremes to which he's willing to push himself to keep her safe, a clear impossibility now with so many guns trained on her, or they don't know or care who they've captured.

The leader, a tall clean-shaven black man, steps through the crowd and looks curiously at Booker. "I don't know how you got your hands on the Prophet's First Lady, friend, but it so happens the Vox Populi are in need of just such a ship. We'd be willin' to offer you appropriate compensation for her, and for your supplies there."

Booker frowns. "Sorry 'friend', but she ain't for sale. The girl and I got an appointment in Paris we can't afford t' miss."

"Would three hundred silver eagles be enough for you to consider canceling that appointment?"

"Not even if it y' made it three thousand." Elizabeth raises her eyebrows in surprise. "Now if y' don't mind..." Bold as brass, he takes a step forward and doesn't flinch as the Vox close in around him. "We done here?"

"I wish it were that easy, friend." the leader sighs. "But our orders come from Daisy. We _need_ that airship. If you were smart, you'd have taken the money and found another way out." He bellows over his shoulder, "Let's get this shit loaded, people!"

"Hold on a minute..." Booker snarls, grabbing the man by the front of his shirt. "I don't know how big y' are on folklore, but I'm the goddamn False Shepherd, an' if you don't give us back that airship I'm gonna burn you and your men." His free hand is ablaze with the Devil's Kiss.

"And what about the girl?" the leader asks calmly. "Would you burn her too?"

A strangled sound from Elizabeth causes Booker to turn his head. One of the masked Vox soldiers has his hand across her mouth and a huge hand cannon pressed against her temple. Her eyes are wide and fearful. His heart skips a beat. His grip slackens.

Suddenly the leader springs to life. He grabs Booker by the wrist and wrenches his arm to the side before headbutting him hard. Booker lets out a yell and staggers back. He would have fallen flat on his face if it wasn't for the merciless hand of the leader holding his arm out behind him.

"Booker!" Elizabeth shrieks, breaking free of the lone Vox and sprinting towards her new guardian. She doesn't make it far. The rest of the assembled Vox Populi rush forward and attempt to restrain her. She fights tooth and nail but is soon just as helpless as he. "Get your hands OFF me!" she yells as they take hold of her arms. Booker is on his knees now, his vision cloudy with pain and perhaps something else. Didn't this already happen? No, it's still happening. But why does he think he hears two of her?

The leader's deep voice rumbles in his bones. "Cover her eyes. She doesn't need to see this." From far away, he hears Elizabeth struggling, the painful sound of her frantic sobbing. His heart is pounding wildly. His ears are ringing, there's the cold touch of metal against the back of his scalp, and a hellish red is building inside. _Not like this,_ he thinks savagely to a god, a fate he doesn't believe in. _Not like this. Not like this..._

Then a new voice, a woman's voice, rich with scorn and wonder. "What the fuck are you doin'?"

The man, gruffly apologetic. "The son of a bitch said he was gonna burn us alive."  
"I heard what he said!" the woman shouted. "And I also heard he was the False fuckin' Shepherd that ruined their big day up top!"

The cold metal is gone. "Who told you that?"  
"The usual folk. They were all pretty shook up, but once they settled down, every single one of them identified that fella there as the man who rode in with the mornin' breeze and saved those poor souls at the lottery."

The man lets go of Booker's arm and he gratefully collapses to the floor. The woman rounds on the soldiers next. "Who's that under there? Minuano! Why, you were one of the ones I had talkin' to 'em! Why didn't you speak up boy?"

Only a mumbled response. The woman scoffs in irritation. "Fuck it. All of you inside. Take those burlap sacks an' all with you. We're gonna have a meetin' 'bout this later." Something in the way the woman said 'meeting' gives the impression that heads are about to roll. Booker raises his head wearily and sees the soldiers release Elizabeth, who shakes herself free of the last two and rushes to his aid. "Booker... Oh thank God, Booker...!" It's all he can do to hold up a hand to her as she kneels down beside him. He's too tired to say anything, and she's crying in relief, but they find what comfort they can in a quick clasp of hands.

The shuffle of footsteps fade away into the distance. The woman says sharply, "Johnson, get back here."

"Yes ma'am." the leader says reluctantly. From where he lies on the dock, Booker can see two pairs of feet out of the corner of his eye, one clad in ragged black shoes coming up from behind to join the other pair clad in tall grey boots to match grey pants.

"Help the poor man up." the woman instructs him. The black shoes move closer and Elizabeth lets out a small gasp as the tall black man bends down and wraps an arm around Booker's shoulders. He hefts Booker to his feet (Elizabeth scrambles to her feet as well) and waits wordlessly while his leader, a deceptively small black woman with a deeply-written scowl across her face, steps forward. "You're lucky you had the little lady along to raise hell for you. I might not have heard a thing until it was too late."  
"That's it? No apology, no 'gee mister I sure am sorry, here's the keys to that airship of yours, have a nice day'?" Booker groans.

The woman scoffs again. "First words outta your mouth, and I can already see how you rubbed Johnson the wrong way." She's standing right in front of him now, and finally recognition dawns.

"You're Daisy Fitzroy." Booker says.

She nods. "Won't hold it against ya. Those posters they put up don't exactly do me justice."

Elizabeth wipes the blood from Booker's face. "Where does it hurt?" she asks him quietly. He bites back the snide 'everywhere', tells her he'll be fine. She frowns anxiously; she knows his tricks, but at least this time he means it.

She turns to Daisy. "I'm sorry about all this trouble, ma'am. But we _do_ need that airship back."

Daisy purses her lips. "We already started movin' the injured on board, set up the tents 'n' started dishin' what little medicine we got."  
"I could help out," Elizabeth offers. "I read all about that when I...when I was younger." She narrowly misses talking about the tower.

"That's a kind offer, missie, but from what my people have been tellin' me, the two of you'd be better off doin' somethin' a little more hands-on." She takes a small business card from her pocket and hands it to Elizabeth. "There's a war comin' DeWitt. A big one. And the way we are now, we won't last long. If you talk to the gunsmith, get him to make us some guns, we might just be able to turn this city around."

"How do you know my name?" Booker asks.

"Like I said, my people been tellin' me all kindsa things. They tell me you fell from the sky near Monument Isle and that the statue's been tore clean to pieces. Now I don't know what ol' Father Comstock had planned for you, honey, and I don't care. If you get us those guns, we'll give you your ship back an' you can go wherever you damn well please." She nods at Johnson, who pulls his arm away from Booker as if he was contagious, and comes to stand by her side. "But if you decide you'd rather take a stand, you know where to find me." Without another word, Daisy and her associate turn and walk away toward the gangplank. As Booker and Elizabeth watch, they board the First Lady and take to the skies.

"I guess that's that." Booker grunts. "We either find that gunsmith...what's his name?"

"Chen Lin." Elizabeth says and tucks the card away.  
"We either find Chen Lin and get the girl her guns or we're gonna be stuck here for a while. A while we ain't got."

"Says he's down in Finkton proper. It's where Fink keeps his workers."

"What, they can't even leave?" She looks uncomfortable. "Ah Christ. Guess we'll find out."

"Are you sure you're able to walk?" Elizabeth asks as Booker stretches cautiously.

"My legs are fine, just my shoulder that's killin' me. Hope we don't have to ride any of those skylines any time soon." He limps down the dock. Elizabeth frowns after him for a moment before hurrying to catch up.

They walk in silence for a while before she works up the courage to say it. "What was it you said about not starting fights?"

"Couldn't wait to rub it in, huh?"

"I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry." he says almost instantly. "I wasn't thinkin' straight."

"Did you mean what you said?" she asked hesitantly.

"I did. Still do as a matter of fact. Soon as we get her back, we're takin' that airship to Paris." She gasps in delight and is about to hug him, but he shies away. "Hey hey, what're you're doin'?"

"I...I was going to hug you." she says, a little crestfallen. "It's what people do when they're grateful, isn't it?"

"More often it's just 'thanks'. Hugs are a whole other thing an'... an' my back's still killin' me. D' you think we could leave off on the huggin' for a while?"

"Okay..." Elizabeth lowers her eyes to the ground sadly and he could just about kick himself.

The hug had to wait, although it must be said even with an ambush by a squad of heavily armed police officer, a crushing defeat by something called a Handyman, and the horrors of Finkton, it was never far from either of their minds. It just never felt _right_ somehow: not when they discover more about the power of the tears, not during the long slow rides in the elevators, not even after he picks up the guitar beneath the Graveyard Shift. Booker DeWitt is a stubborn man, and his stubbornness will hurt them still more in time still to come.

It is a long time before they return to the First Lady. Many terrible sights and deeds have befallen them, not the least of which is the unseen blood upon Elizabeth's hands. Power corrupts...

They stand at the helm; while Booker is concerned about the quiet, freshly shorthaired girl by his side, he finds the presence of mind to turn the ship to Paris, as he can see that he meant to from the start. With pale face and haunted eyes, she takes in the new coordinates but is unable to offer him any thanks aside from a small smile, too quickly banished by the ear-splitting shriek of the Songbird as he tears them from the skies.

They land, heartstopping seconds later, with a horrible crash. The last thing they see is each other.


	5. The Factory

Regrettably, this series is on hiatus until I can get the taste of Episode 2 out of my mouth. (You have no idea how much I despise it.)

I do plan to continue it at some point in the future (with at least** 9**, count them **9**, additional chapters), so here are some teasers:

* * *

1. A detour through Fink's Factory during the first few hours of the revolution, an encounter with a Handyman, and a better ending for Miss Fitzroy

2. When the way is blocked, our heroes take a brief glimpse into another Columbia

3. The Lutece device makes Elizabeth uneasy, so they leave and have a nice little chat just across the street from a burning building

4. Comstock House

5. Booker still hates needles, and a tragic parting amidst the Sea of Doors

6. The Dark and Timeless Dalek Night (the Dalek time controller is such a lovely name)

7. A flimsy excuse for me to write a Joker-like character

8. An uncomfortable Rapture reunion

9. The Fragrance of Dark Coffee heralds the end

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's read it, and I'll see you when I see you.**  
**


	6. Emporia Anecdotes I

**WARNING: This chapter is rated a tentative M for a disturbing idea which refused to leave either of us alone.**

As Elizabeth is about to try the lock across the door of the Salty Oyster, the sounds of an angry mob in the distance catch her ear. She turns to Booker, thinking to warn him, just as he turns to her with the same idea. Their words collide, prompting awkward chuckles from them both. Then, cautiously, Booker begins to climb the stairs, pistol in one hand and a cluster of painful electrified crystals sprouting from the other. Elizabeth follows close behind. They pass into a large room with ransacked trunks, suitcases and bodies at the foot of an enormous statue of the so-called Angel of Columbia. Elizabeth turns faintly green when she sees the bodies, but still manages to keep up as he moves along towards the noise. Booker reaches the top of another flight of stairs, and is met by two more, one on either side. "This one or this?" he mutters with a grin.

Elizabeth's hand brushes the golden brooch he'd chosen when she'd asked him the same thing. "Let's live dangerously; let's go with the left." she suggests with a grin of her own.

"Left it is." he agrees. He's about to move towards them, but is brought up short when she grabs him by the sleeve. She points to the railing that lines the buttress above. "If you lift me up, I can try and see what's going on." she offers.

"Not a bad idea." Booker has to admit. He bends slightly, entwines and outstretches his hands. She puts a dainty hand on his shoulder and steps up onto the platform he's made for her. He lifts her up, and she grabs hold of two of the bannisters. "What c'n you see?" he grunts.

"It looks as though they've set up a stage of sorts in front of a statue of the Prophet. There's a few soldiers, 5 or 6 all told, annnnd a Patriot. Hold on; I can see a Fireman off to the left." The strange apparatuses the aptly-named Firemen are encased in serve as a uniquely painful kind of life support; only by setting fire to others do the poor souls within receive a moment's respite from the literal hell they've been trapped in. (Elizabeth's stomach still knots when she remembers the burns that the Fireman in the Good Time Club left Booker with; it had been hours before she'd had the time and the ointment to treat them properly.)

"Wait, they're bringing someone onstage. They... oh no..."

A recorded voice rises above the commotion: a man's voice, tired but calm. "I confess...that I am an agent and a provocateur of the Comstock regime. I was responsible for the 1904 Emporia bombing. I was the...mastermind behind the assassination attempt..." The rest is lost in the roar of the crowd and their cries for blood. Elizabeth watches in horrified silence as the man onstage, the man from the recording, flanked by two faceless Vox soldiers, shrilly proclaims his innocence. Booker eases her down; he already knows what she's going to say.

"Booker, we have to help him!" she beseeches him.

"We can't help everyone." he says.

"We haven't helped _any_one!" she retorts bitterly. "Not even ourselves."

Booker thinks about it, but he knows his mind had been made the moment he saw her face. He's beginning to come to terms, in his own slow plodding way, with the fact that he will do anything for this girl he still knows so little about. Elizabeth rubs at the stub of her missing pinky; eyes, once brighter and bluer than water and sky alike, occasionally brushing his pleadingly. He would bring her the moon if she would just stop looking at him like that. He wants to see her smile again and mean it too; he wants to see her dance again...

She pulls her arms around herself now, like she's trying to hold in all the hopes and dreams she'd been full to bursting with just the day before. She can't even look him in the eyes any more. She thinks he's going to say no. Suddenly, Booker wants to hold her close, to hug her until she can't help but cry the tears she's been holding back since they awoke in the wreckage of their once-proud airship. But he is a stubborn man, and some part of him still whispers that the time is not right.

The moment has passed. The captive is still begging for mercy on the stage, but mercy is one of the first against the wall when the revolution begins. Booker sighs. "I'm going t' regret this, but I'll see what I c'n do."

Elizabeth looks up at him, her face brightening, the corners of her mouth lifting ever so slightly. "I'll try to get him out of the way if things go bad." She planned ahead. Good for her.

"Trust me, they will. Far as they're concerned, one body'd be just as good as another." With that, he heads up the stairs to his right as she heads up the stairs to _her_ right. He takes up a position by an overturned trolley, still piled high with luggage, at the back of the crowd; she hurries up another flight of stairs off to the right, the clack of her boots upon the stone floor muffled by the clamor of the Vox. Booker sends Elizabeth a nod as he checks his ammo, which she returns with a grateful and encouraging smile before ducking down behind the railing. "Bastard better be worth it." he mutters to himself. "HEY!" The men all turn. "He's just a postman; he didn't hurt anybody!"

"He confessed to the bombings...!" one of the soldiers onstage starts to say.

"Once y' beat it out of him sure." Booker retorts. "Y' didn't even wipe the blood off his face."

One of the men in the crowd, present at the siege of Fink Manufacturing, suddenly shouts, "It's DeWitt!"

And all hell breaks loose.

Word spreads quickly through the ranks of the Vox; word of the man and girl posing as their fallen hero and the Lamb. They know what they must do. The soldiers scramble for cover, and for their guns, while the Patriot lumbers noisily towards Booker. "If they will not have us in their city, then there shall be no city!" it bellows, heedless of the green ghostly figure fluttering into its mask. It stops for a moment, clicks and whirs heavily, then the lights on its back blaze green and it turns its crank gun upon its former allies. Three of the Vox fall within seconds amidst screams and blood, out-gunned and out-matched. While Possession works its magic, Booker takes a few shots at the Fireman, drawing his gaze from Elizabeth as she dashes onto the stage to rescue the postman. She shows him the ways she takes through the hail of bullets, pushes him to the ground as fire arcs through the air where he had stood, helps him to his feet and down the first flight of stairs to a place of moderate safety. "Go back to Port Prosperity as fast as you can. Last thing I saw, they were still evacuating." she tells him hurriedly.

"Thank you both so much...!"

"Go!" she shouts. He gives up trying to voice his thanks and stumbles away down the stairs, then off to the right and out of sight. Elizabeth gazes after him until an explosion from above snaps her out of her reverie. She climbs back up the steps to the main hall and gasps in shock as the head of the Motorized Patriot, its porcelain features cracked to reveal nightmarish glimpses of the wires and cogs beneath, comes to rest at her feet. She looks up to see Booker charging through the air, sending the last living member of the Vox squad hurtling into a column with a sickening crunch. His comrades are scattered about in various states of lifeless agony.

_He might be good in a fight, but he has HORRIBLE taste when it comes to interior decorating_, Elizabeth thinks to herself dryly, and starts to feel sick for doing so. It was only the other day she'd been shaken to the point of tears the first time Booker had killed for her; now she was making jokes? _What am I turning into?_

"Elizabeth! Get down!" Booker yells suddenly at the top of his voice. A sudden bead of sweat slithers down her neck; realization comes with the rising heat. She turns. The stove-front helmet is mere inches away. "THE PUNISHMENT MUST BE SERVED!" something inside shrieks.

She can't move. An agonizing, flesh-boiling death is staring her in the face and she can't move. All she can do is think. She wonders how much would be left when it's all done. She wonders if her brain, flighty and maddening as it is, will let her die right away, or if it will try and keep her alive out of spite as the pain builds and her skin melts away.

A bolt of lightning sizzles past her. The Fireman screams, a ball of fire falling from its hand as it convulses uncontrollably. Booker seizes Elizabeth by the waist and empties his pistol into the boiler upon the Fireman's back as he backs away hastily. A high-pitched whine fills their ears and the flames around the tortured figure turn to blue. It gathers its remaining strength for one last suicidal rush, but Booker takes a running leap and is soon hanging from a freight hook in the distance, far out of reach and still holding tight to the petrified girl by his side. The Fireman screams once more in impotent fury, and explodes in a massive gout of fire that shakes the room.

Elizabeth stares blankly at the spot where the twisted hunk of metal comes to rest, long before the smoke has even cleared. "Hey." Booker nudges her with his shoulder. She doesn't move. "Hey Lamb." Doesn't speak. "Seed of the Prophet? Hello?" Doesn't even blink. He drops to the ground with a thud and lets her go. Immediately, she starts to shake. "Elizabeth...?"

Finally, she raises her head. "He was going to kill me..." she says faintly.

"Yeah. Only he didn't. 'F you start worrying about all the maybes and might-have-beens, we'll be here through winter." Booker says.

"He was going to kill me... For what? Not being the meek and mild-mannered Lamb that Comstock said I would be?"

"Somethin' like that. Seems the you from this world never got rescued. Guess I got too wrapped up playin' hero to bother savin' you." He doesn't know why he says it; he only hopes she made it out all right without him. He wipes away the sudden rush of blood from his nose, fights back the headache, the memories he never lived, with all that he is.

Elizabeth looks doubtful. "I'm not sure if you did save me Booker. Sometimes I think I might have been better off in my tower."

"Yeah? An' then what? Drownin' in flame the mountains of man?" Booker takes her by the shoulders. "Elizabeth, look at me." She's barely able to comply. "Remember what you said, 'bout havin' a choice bein' better 'n' no choice at all?"

"I...I don't..."

"You were right. That's the way things are sometimes. You were right, an' I was wrong." Booker isn't sure how much of that he believes, but it's what Elizabeth needed to hear. She takes a deep shuddering breath and looks at him in that beautiful way she has. "How d' y' feel?" he asks her. _He_ needs to hear it now.

"Better," she says. She shrugs free of his grip, squeezing a handful of his fingers in silent thanks, and says it again like she's trying to make it come true. "I feel better. I was wrong about one thing though."

"What's that?" he asks.

"I don't like it when people are afraid of me. I wish I could just go someplace quiet where no one knows who I am. I don't want to be the lamb or...or the seed of the Prophet; I just want to be _me_." Her voice is thick with tears now and he wishes he could be brave enough to do something instead of standing there dumbly.

Finally he asks, "What about Paris?"

Elizabeth almost scoffs. The sound breaks his heart. "Paris... It can't be that special, right?"

"We'll have t' find out." Booker turns towards the exit. "Y' comin'?" he asks over his shoulder.

"What about them?" She gestures vaguely at the roomful of bodies.

"I'd rather not look at 'em any more." The words are callous but the tone is sincere. He hasn't learned to live with it either.


End file.
